


Clingy Drunk

by Marmosette



Series: Drunk Mycroft [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Clingy Mycroft, Drunk Mycroft Holmes, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Greg Lestrade - Freeform, M/M, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 02:06:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15523704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: “Where are you taking me?” Mycroft asked, his voice carefully controlled to keep it steady and soft, his lips curved in a slight smile, his eyes boring a hole through Greg’s temple.“Home.”“Sounds promising.”“Well it would be, if I could get you into the cab.”





	Clingy Drunk

 

“Yes, love.” Greg made eye contact with the cabbie and reached for the door handle again. “Come on, in you get.”

Mycroft had his interlocked fingers clasped on top of Greg’s left shoulder, his chin resting on his fingers, his weight on one foot in the gutter, and the toe of his other foot idly balanced on the kerb. His breath was flammable from ten paces, and Greg had already lifted the packet of cigarettes from Mycroft’s pocket just in case.

“Where are you taking me?” Mycroft asked, his voice carefully controlled to keep it steady and soft, his lips curved in a slight smile, his eyes boring a hole through Greg’s temple.

“Home.”

“Sounds promising.”

“Well it would be, if I could get you into the cab.”

“Kiss me first.”

Greg had to stretch his neck to give him space to turn his head and stare at the slyly smiling bimbo hanging off him. “How about you get in the cab and I kiss you then?”

“I need payment in advance.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. This was now a negotiation, and as he had an expert available, he could finally ask. “So do I. How does this work, then? We both demand payment in advance, so who gets to win?”

“Whoever is strongest.”

“You want to arm wrestle on the roof of the cab, Holmes?” Greg demanded, nodding slowly with wide-eyed disbelief. “Because that’s not gonna be a good look for you.”

“I mean whoever is in the strongest position,” Mycroft explained with the tiniest shake of his own head, trying to bring his chin down a bit as well and only succeeding in tipping his head forward.

“You’re still gonna lose. You want a kiss and you want to go home with me, and I’m still sober enough to walk and you’re very much _not_.”

Mycroft’s forehead puckered in a confused frown. “Are you turning me down, Lestrade?”

“Broadly speaking, you have two choices,” Greg said firmly. “You refuse to get in the cab and I get in alone, and leave you standing here, in which case yes, I would be turning you down. _Or_ …you get in the cab and we go home, and I turn down your bed.”

“Mmm, bed. Why don’t you join me?”

“I would, if you were in the cab. Look, if I win, we get home faster. If you win, we kiss on the street in front of every CCTV camera in sight. And how many is that, exactly?”

Mycroft sighed, his gaze hardening remarkably as he pulled back, straightened his coat, and turned away to get into the cab. Greg watched in vague alarm, because Mycroft’s movements were perfectly steady, his expression stern and disappointed and silently vowing revenge. Greg ducked down and climbed in beside him.

As they pulled into traffic, Greg pushed himself sideways into the corner to see what Mycroft would do next, but it was too late. The British Government was already tipping onto him, one arm tunnelling behind him against the seat, the other flung out in a seemingly sloppy flail that nevertheless slammed the privacy screen shut before falling across Greg’s chest. He tipped his face up to Greg again. “ _Now_ kiss?”

Greg dipped his head and met Mycroft’s soft lips with a hard pucker of his own. “Mwah. There you go, you big baby.” He turned to watch the shops slide past the glass, noting other couples on the pavement and wondering if their partners had refused cabs with even more fervency.

“Kiss me properly,” Mycroft said, frowning but unable to hide the lift to the corners of his lips.

Greg nodded toward the cabbie. “You do realise that he might not be able to hear us over the radio, but he can definitely see us in his mirror. Or see _me_ , anyway,” Greg added, looking at the slanting angle of Mycroft’s torso.

“The poor man needs what entertainment he can find. And I doubt two middle-aged men snogging in his cab is the worst he’s seen. This is _London_.”

“Yeah, all right,” Greg sighed, bending his head. Mycroft’s lips were a little moister than usual, but as appealing as ever. His tongue slipped past Greg’s, and the gingery, honeyed taste of the dessert wine was still rich on his tongue. Drunk Mycroft was greedier about exploring Greg’s mouth; less assertive and softer, though. It was like kissing a feather duvet rather than the focused, agile initiatives of his Holmes when sober.

The kiss went long, and Greg tried several times to pull back, but every time he got his lips together again, Mycroft nudged Greg’s nose gently with his own, flicked a gentle lick against the tip of Greg’s upper lip, and Greg fell back in. He finally managed it, with a frustrated groan. “Come on, now, why do you _do_ this?”

“Do what?” Mycroft asked, puzzled and genuine about it.

“You’re gonna fucking destroy me and I won’t even be able to get my wallet out by the time we reach the flat,” he said, laughing a little and glancing out the window, as though anything out there was going to get him out of what was happening in here.

“There’s cash in mine,” Mycroft said, lifting his face again, his gaze fixed on Greg’s mouth.

“Not the point!” Greg wailed, then glanced up at the mirror and pretended he hadn’t just met the cabbie’s eyes, and that there weren’t creases in the corners. “Not the point,” Greg repeated, almost a whisper, jiggling his leg nervously. “I won’t be able to walk.”

Mycroft glanced down, eyebrows up and pulling his lips down as though to make way for his gaze. “Unzip and button your coat,” he suggested. “Or, alternatively, I can take care of that for you.”

“ _No_!” Greg grabbed for Mycroft’s free wrist, which hadn’t done a thing to lift from his chest.

“Relax,” Mycroft murmured. “I meant that I could hold your coat closed when we get out.”

Greg could almost feel the steam coming out of his ears, and there was no way in any kind of hell that he was looking up again at the mirror. “Could you just behave?”

“I am,” Mycroft said, sounding very much like his sober self. “I’m just not behaving _properly_.”

**Author's Note:**

> This has been an excuse in my family for decades. I doubt we made it up, though.


End file.
